


Ransom

by rubbishwriter



Category: U2
Genre: F/M, ZooTV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:57:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3208334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubbishwriter/pseuds/rubbishwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in London during U2's ZooTV tour. A rather unfortunate girl gets caught up in a kidnap. Please note this is in an AU where Bono is not married...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pls comment if you want me to post more chapters, I enjoyed writing this and it didn't take very long so if you liked it please tell me!

Two weeks ago. That was when they took us. The headlines the following morning greedily devoured the story and spat out headlines: ‘ _Rock singer and girl kidnapped by fake taxi!’_ It sounds rather strange put like that. Alright, perhaps I should explain.

That night was my 29th birthday and a group of friends and I had gone out clubbing. I ended up pissed and alone in an alleyway, semi-conscious and violently vomiting up the contents of my stomach onto the grimy stone wall. Let it be noted I was never experienced in the consumption of alcohol. I will never forgive my friends for abandoning me that night. Perhaps I will never get the chance to. Anyway, after a sizable amount of foul, half-digested food (I doubt you want to hear precisely what it looked like) was dripping slowly down the wall onto the cobbles below, I managed to rise and began to stagger down the gloomy alley. I remember hearing cars and faint, faraway laughter at the end.

I emerged out onto a backstreet of London which wasn’t familiar to me, especially not in my drunken state. London is a beautiful city but it has its fair share of dingy alleys and backstreets full of homeless people and thugs. I pulled my coat tighter around me and glanced around nervously. There was no one about but a dark-haired man clad in black leather. I watched him carefully out of the corner of my eye. He appeared to be waiting for something and paid me no heed. Nevertheless, I slowly inched away from him. It pays to be cautious although I now know I was nowhere near cautious enough. Relief washed over me as a taxi pulled up beside me; I was anxious to be home and safe. I stumbled towards it as it slowed, the rough purr of its engine murmuring as it drove over the cigarette butts that lay carelessly discarded on the road. The familiar shape of a London cab was no more a menace to me than my grandmother’s cat. Little did I know. The taxi didn’t stop in front of me. I frowned. It continued to where the man stood. I let out a cry of frustration and followed, pain shooting through my head with each step. I swore to myself I would never drink again. There was no way I was going to stand out here in the cold and wait for the next bloody cab. The man glanced over to what I now understand must have been a rather alarming image: me, my face red and blotched, staggering toward him and growling expletives. To be fair most of this was due to the alcohol, I am usually a rather considerate and polite individual. I wrenched open the taxi door and had just enough time to register the man’s startled expression before I was sitting on the luxurious leather back seats of the cab. The dark figure of the driver was twisted around and I could see he was also staring at me. I decided the time had come to remember my manners. Panting embarrassingly loudly considering the short distance I had run, I managed: “Uh…I don’t suppose you could take me home too? I live fairly nearby…I think….And I can pay extra.” I looked expectantly at them.

The dark-haired man was peering down at me, a slight smirk dancing across his lips. He wore sunglasses and even my drunken brain understood the ridiculousness of this. I had to restrain myself from blurting out: “What the fuck?? It’s night-time mate!” Although i have to admit, he did look pretty good in them. While I was still processing this he spoke. “Do I have a choice?” His voice was soft and he had what I thought was most likely an Irish accent, although I am really shitty at distinguishing between accents. I grudgingly found it rather pleasant. He grinned suddenly at me, sprawled on the back seats, a remnant of a snarl etched into my face. “I doubt I could remove you if I tried.” Addressing the driver he said, “Drop her off first, I don’t mind it taking a little longer.” He paused and it took me a minute to realise he was waiting for me to move over. I hurriedly scrambled over to the seat behind the driver. As he climbed in the driver told me in a thick Cockney accent (which I found much less pleasant): “Orright luv, I won’t charge ya extra, I’m a nice bloke y’know? Jus’ do up yer seatbelt and we’ll be off.” He chuckled deeply, a harsh, ugly sound and then murmured something that sounded like: “Betcha don’t know who you’re in a cab wiv.” Perhaps if I weren’t so drunk I would have noticed he had not asked for directions, but, as it was, I sat back, content, and looked out the window at the mesmerising lights flashing past. Once or twice I sneaked glances over to where the Irish guy (alright I can’t keep naming him by his hair colour) was sitting, no _lounging_ , running a hand through his hair every once in a while and taking long drags from the cigarette in his mouth, wisps of smoke escaping from his lips with every breath he took. I thought this delightful sight was well worth the awful smell of cigarette smoke. I remember thinking he seemed a little familiar, especially his voice, but I put it down to the large amount of alcohol in my system. His pale face was ghostly in the reflection of the taxi window and I noticed a small scar on his chin. I wondered how he got it. In a warm haze, I drifted off to sleep, comforted by the soft humming from the man beside me.

I would later awaken to his screams as we were both forced out of the cab and into a dingy warehouse. I have not seen sunlight since. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a bit all over the place, don't worry everyone (my enormous audience) :D  
> I will continue writing if there are any solitary souls out there reading this. I'm afraid my brain wanted me to write this in present tense, so in present tense it was written! Please tell me if you spot any errors  
> Take note that this takes place in an AU where Bono is not married...

_Two weeks after the kidnap_

The harsh scraping of metal on metal echoes outside the door of our cell. It is not uncommon, I have been hearing noises like this for the past few days. I wonder for what must have been the thousandth time where we are. Wincing, I shiver slightly, then glance over to Bono. Oh yes, something perhaps I should have mentioned before. This bloody man took an entire day to tell me that he was in fact Bono, the lead singer of U2. I suppose it didn’t make much difference, but then at least I would have understood why people were even trying to kidnap him. Why oh why did I have to pick that taxi. Although, I would not wish for him to be here alone.

He has been startled awake by the loud noise and now sits bolt upright, white-knuckled fists clenching on to a steel bar that juts out from the wall beside him. His face is gaunt and even paler than the night I had first seen him. Stubble runs across his jaw along with small cuts he had made with the ancient-looking razor our gracious kidnappers had given him. That cheeky smirk he had flashed me the night we met is nowhere to be seen. He stares at me now, his eyes showing nothing but fear and confusion. ‘Probably not used to not waking up in his rock-star bed,’ I thought, though with a touch of sympathy. The kidnappers had obviously run along the same train of thought I had regarding the sunglasses and confiscated them. Bono seemed much less confident and cocky without them, although on second thoughts that was probably due to being locked in a cell for two weeks. I hate to go on long rants describing people but I would just like to point out that he has beautiful eyes. They are piercing blue and crinkled at the corners as if he smiles a lot, not that he has much chance to in here.

Over the past two weeks I suppose we have become closer and at first it was damn right awkward, especially pissing in the bucket and making sure he kept his lovely eyes closed. We cuddled together at night, just for comfort, you know? He was very warm and I didn’t feel quite so lonely with his arms around me. I have begun to look forward to that time. A few days after the kidnap I heard him crying in the dark while he thought I was asleep. I didn’t dare question him about it in case he is one of those men whose masculinity is easily insulted, but I always will remember that. He cried softly almost all night in a helpless way that made me think it was not the first time he had done so in his life. Although I don’t even know this man that well, it almost broke my heart to feel his silenced sobs racking his body.

Anyway, here we are still stuck in this bloody place. I’ve seen our captors once or twice- not the guy in the taxi, two taller men- when they come once a day to bring us a meagre amount of food and water. They came earlier while Bono was asleep and ignored my urgent questions. I have noticed they try to avoid him, probably because for the first few days he pounded on the door with his shoulder until I was certain he would break either himself or the door, screaming rather rude-sounding words and curses I didn’t even know existed, his eyes hard and muscles taut with anger and frustration. Fortunately he gave up on this. Unfortunately, it was only after a good few days, with only a few hours in between in which he would sink to his haunches, utterly exhausted. Funny to think that during that time I actually wished he would talk more.

Alright, back to the present. Do excuse me, my mind does tend to wander.

I shift over as Bono moves closer to me.  
“How are you?” he asks, his voice slightly husky.  
I give a weak smile. “Hey, I’m fine. Sorry that noise woke you, I have no idea what they’re doing out there.”  
“It isn’t your fault love.” He then proceeds to explain to me all the reasons why we can’t escape from the damn cell, something that cheers me up no end (that was sarcasm in case you missed it). In the time I have spent stuck with this man I have learned that he doesn’t stop talking. Well he does, for short periods of time, but in those short periods of time he is fidgeting or pacing or doing some other annoying little thing. It does my head in and I have told him this numerous times but he doesn’t seem able to stop himself.

For the rest of the afternoon we entertain ourselves by drawing figures in the dust on the floor of the room. Bono draws a man with what looks like a giant slug on his head and a goatee. Just for the record, I doubt the guy really has a slug on his head, I think it was more likely its semblance to a slug was down to Bono’s appalling drawing skills. Honestly. I won’t even try to describe what the others looked like. Bono has told me about them before, his bandmates, a sad smile crossing his face as the memories he speaks of drift through his eyes. As we talked and laughed, Bono started to regain some of his old charm which I was pleased to see, despite the fact that this made him both ten times more annoying and ten times more irresistable. Yes, alright, I was beginning to find him incredibly attractive, what with his beautiful eyes and cute grin and freckles. Please don’t blame me. I had never been that interested in U2, I only knew them as a very serious, political sort of group with funny hair back in the Eighties. Perhaps if I ever got back home I would buy some of their records. This man certainly has a very nice voice and nice hair too, jet black and slightly messy from sleeping on the floor. I realise I am staring at him as I think and he glances up and notices. He points at a crude sketch of a wild-eyed man with a giant mass of lumpy hair, reaching out to an imaginary crowd and grasping what is actually recognisable as a microphone. I suppose Bono should know what they look like. He exclaims,“See? This is me when I was little." He frowns then smiles broadly. "More little." I laugh and wipe the drawing away. "Okay my turn, see if you can get this one."

That night I curl up beside him and lay my head on his chest for the first time. He doesn’t protest but I feel his breathing quicken. After a moment he wraps an arm around me and I see a faint smile touch his lips in the silvery moonlight shining through a crack in the ceiling. I can hear his heart beating in a peculiar rhythm through his thin shirt. I open my mouth to mention this to him but it occurs to me he probably already knows. I drift off to sleep calmed by the soothing sound of his breathing and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Despite the fact that I have been locked in a filthy cell by a gang of thugs for two fucking weeks I feel somewhat safe and peaceful.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bono does some singing and the unnamed girl has an interesting evening

The next morning I wake up beside him, my arms entangled around his body. I carefully extract myself, miraculously without waking him. He lies with his head against the stone wall, his pale face peaceful and the corner of his mouth twitching occasionally. I take the opportunity to have a good stare. Well what else am I supposed to look at? The walls?

_Later that day_

Okay, I was lying before: we do see sunlight in the cell. But only a very small amount through the crack in the ceiling and I thought it sounded very dramatic. Right now it is early afternoon, I would estimate, and thin shafts of light illuminate the particles of dust dancing in the darkness of our cell. (heheheh Bruce Springsteen. No? Nevermind.)

I look over to Bono and hesitate, then ask tentatively, “Bono? Will you sing me a song? I would love to hear you sing.”

He grins in delight. “Oh it’s been a while since someone asked me to sing. I usually begin whether they like it or not. I thought you deserved a higher level of courtesy since you are not quite as rude to me as Larry is.” His face clouds over for a second before he asks, “Have you heard any of our music before?”

“No,” I reply, a little embarrassed. “Well probably on the radio, but I’ve not bought any.”

He doesn’t seem too disappointed and just huffs in mock-dismay: “Well we aren’t the only band in the world.” With a wry grin he continues, “We have rather challenged our fans, especially lately. This song I will sing isn’t very well known and I doubt you would have heard it on the radio.”

I sit back and smile. “Well, go on then.”

He begins to sing, a haunting melody that stirs feelings of longing and loss deep within me. He rocks back and forward slightly as he sings, lost in the music I suppose, as a more musicy sort of person than me would say.

_Will you come back tomorrow?_

_Will you come back tomorrow?_

_Can I sleep tonight_

(*ehem* this isn’t part of the story but this version of the song is more like the Bono and Adam Clayton 1996 Common Ground remix of ‘Tomorrow’)

If I thought his speaking voice was beautiful it is nothing compared to this. I could listen to this for the rest of my life and still want to hear it on my deathbed. A tad dramatic, but that is how I felt hearing him sing. He sings with his eyes half closed, his handsome face contorted into an expression of fierce yearning.

I wonder who the song is about, a lover who had left him? As he continues I realise the song evokes emotions linked to the loss of a loved one. My father died when I was very young and I remember not fully understanding the blunt concept of death; he was never coming back. The lyrics of this song to me capture a child’s innocent ignorance of the harsh and unforgiving rules of the world. I would guess a much younger Bono wrote this.

A melancholic mood has settled over us as he finishes the song. He sees the sorrow in my eyes and puts an arm around me. We sit in companionable silence for a while (yes, that includes Bono), each of us immersed in our own thoughts and drawing comfort from the other’s company.

As night draws closer we find a nice corner and huddle together (They are all rather similar to be honest). It gets cold here in London, you see. I presume we are still somewhere near London. Anyway it was pretty chilly and I was grateful for Bono’s body heat. Like the night before, I rested my head on his chest and he replaced his arms around me. This time I ventured my hand up to the undone buttons of his shirt which were closest to my face and laid my palm over his hot skin. I ran my fingers through curls of his soft chest hair until I could feel his heartbeat thrumming against my hand. He sighed with pleasure and I felt his heart rate increase even further. Just for comfort, y’know?

That night I slept like a log. An extremely sexually frustrated log. (I’m sorry, metaphors were never my strongpoint. Or was that a simile? You see? Hopeless.) To have him so close and to have his scent all around me was overwhelming. It took all my willpower not to kiss his beautiful face for fear that he might wake up and that would be rather awkward for poor old me. I wanted so badly to run my fingers along the stubbled line of his jaw but I mercifully managed to restrain myself (by lying on my hands).

Previous nights, Bono had often been extremely restless, whimpering in his sleep and ending up far from where he had lain down. When this happened I crouched next to him and attempted to soothe him by holding his hand and stroking his arm, although as far as I could tell it didn’t really make a difference. Once I caught him murmuring, ‘Come back!’ It was really awful but I haven’t yet mentioned it to him. I’m not sure he is even aware of what he was doing. Tonight, however, he doesn’t move an inch and sleeps calmly all night through. Aside from some rather saucy dreams, I do the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rather dramatic this one

A scratchy, guttural voice shattered the quiet of our cell. “Stand back! Especially you, bonny singer.” We were both drowsily lying half asleep, a ‘pleasant afternoon nap’ as my mother would call it. We jerked awake, exchanging panicked glances before looking over to the door in which a key was being inserted. The voice had a foreign accent, Russian perhaps or something similar. The accent contorted English words like Microsoft Word running on an iPod. (Oh wait this is in the 90s, scrap that! Another marvellous simile by me…) Anyway, the door creaked open to reveal who I assumed was the speaker: a burly giant of a man wearing a sleeveless tunic and a fierce scowl. He had a vast array of knives at his belt. What did he think this was, the Middle Ages? I gulped as I suddenly realised he would probably find a use for them right here and now.

Bono staggered to his feet and stood in front of me, his body tense and eyes narrowed. The potentially Russian man regarded him for a moment then sniggered, an ugly, mirthless smile twisting the corner of his lips. He touched one of the knives at his belt. “Listen. My employer thinks your value much, much money. I have no such care. He wishes to speak with the girl. I am taking her now.” The smile vanished. “I said stand _back_.”

Bono ignored him, his jaw set. I almost cried out. Oh why did he have to be so stubborn? I tried pulling him away but he was too strong. The big Russian guy smirked at my pathetic efforts. Bono spoke, not a tremor in his voice despite the fact that I could see he was absolutely terrified. “Leave her alone. She is worth nothing to you. Let her go.”

The Russian man strode up to him, towering over Bono’s stocky figure. They stood less than a metre apart, eyes locked and neither man moving a muscle. Suddenly Bono whipped his fist around and hit the larger man in the gut then sprang back, a savage grin lighting his face and fire dancing in his eyes. The Russian guy let out a grunt of pain, clutching his stomach with one hand and fumbling at his belt with the other, his eyes dark with rage. Oh no. I manage to whisper, “ _No, please, no_ ,” before a knife had been hurled at Bono with alarming speed and precision. Perhaps the man only wanted to frighten Bono or perhaps Bono managed to miraculously dodge it. Either way, the long, slender blade clanged harmlessly on the wall behind us and screeched unpleasantly as it hit the stone floor. Bono froze. I hate to use such a cliché expression, but you could have truly heard a pin drop. The Russian man straightened, a smile creasing his face, but his eyes remaining hard and fixed on Bono.

I stepped forward, trembling slightly. “I will go with you, okay? Just please, please, leave him alone and put the knives away.” The bastard already had another bloody knife ready to throw. He didn’t put it away but he lowered it and motioned to the door. “Go. End of the corridor. Do not attempt escape, it is very secure. My employer resides in the office at the finish.” I nodded. My throat was tight and I felt as if I might cry. I’m sure you are probably growing well sick of me by now, but in my defence I hadn’t slept well in here (except for the past few days) and the constant lurking feeling that we would never escape was rather harrowing to say the least, leaving me exhausted and miserable. Bono opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by yet another knife being pointed at him. I caught his eye, silently begging him to not provoke this ridiculously well-armed Russian gentleman. I felt awful leaving him there but what else was I to do? I caught one last glimpse of him through the doorway before I left; his uncut hair falling into his eyes and his shoulders slumped in defeat. I felt a sudden surge of affection for him.

I made my way down the dingy corridor, stumbling slightly over the uneven floor as there was only a single flickering torch struggling to ward off the menacing darkness. Reaching a small, nondescript door at the end, I paused for a second then knocked softly, the sound echoing off the walls. “Come in.” I was almost disappointed. After the exotic array of accents (alright, one) I had been treated to, this one sounded pretty boring. Middle-class, southern English. Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers. I decided it would now be wise to obey the voice and stop pondering the merits of different accents.

Inside the room was a dark-haired man sitting at a desk facing me. Behind him was another door, this one heavily bolted. Although bookshelves lined the walls, many of the books had escaped their confinement and were resting on the man’s desk in giant stacks. I took another look at the man. My mother taught me that staring is rather rude so I stared with all my might. He had dark, tufty hair, the roots of it starting to turn grey despite the man’s obvious efforts to dye it. His eyes glared at me from underneath heavy, black brows. He seemed slightly familiar and after a moment I realised he looked similar to that Smiths singer, although this man was much older. My courage sufficiently gathered, I quirked an elegantly slender eyebrow. “Yes? What do you want?”

The guy's bristly eyebrows descended further over his eyes as he frowned at me. He gestured extravagantly to a chair next to me. “Sit.” My eyes widened in disbelief. Does he think he’s the fucking queen? However I remembered Bono trapped in that room and did as he requested. The man leaned closer to me over the desk and steepled his fingers together before uttering one word. “So.”

At this point I was beginning to doubt this guy’s ability to form sentences. Not an impressive performance so far, was it? I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. He blinked once or twice rapidly then cleared his throat. That seemed to do the trick.

“You are here entirely by accident. As you have most likely guessed, the taxi you got into was driven by one of our operatives, a man charged with the task of bringing the rockstar, Bono, to this place where he can be safely kept until his ransom is received. I have been in contact with his manager already and he is considering my price.” The little shit smiled, evidently very pleased with himself. I only just managed to resist strangling him. “I just thought I’d let you know, you are a great inconvenience to us.” He spat, “A worthless inconvenience.” With a sneer, he leant back in his chair. “We may as well just kill you now. However, I have decided you may live. For a little while longer.”

An icy hand of dread clutched my heart. I frantically glanced around for a weapon, anything, I could use to smash his skull in and wipe the stupid sneer off his face. Movement from a bookcase behind him caught my attention. My face fell as I realised there was a man standing behind it, of course this leader guy was well protected. He watched me carefully and his eyes gleamed with mirth as he saw the hope drain from my face. Gesturing towards me, he addressed the man behind him: “Take her back to the cell."

≈

That night Bono pulls me into his arms and holds me close to him. He whispers in my ear, “I want you to be safe.” His voice catches. “You mean a lot to me.” I feel his warm breath on my cheek as he presses his lips to my skin. His stubble feels slightly rough but I don’t mind. Not one bit. The numbing fear that has been plaguing me since I returned from the old man’s office is momentarily swept aside. I didn’t tell Bono what the man had said. Bono drifts off to sleep but I remain awake, my mind racing. A knot of worry worms into the pit of my stomach and remains there for the rest of the night, gnawing at my insides.


End file.
